


Stuck on the Puzzle

by breathesomeday



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sherlock AU, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathesomeday/pseuds/breathesomeday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first 16 years of his life, Sherlock Holmes encountered few problems that could not be solved. And that was, as far as Sherlock was concerned, entirely <i>boring</i>.</p><p>John Watson was <i>not</i> boring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck on the Puzzle

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is my first ever fic for the Sherlock fandom and was also written as a gift for anatomyofaschoolgirl on Tumblr for a Johnlock Gift Exchange!
> 
> The prompt it was based on is as follows: _Sherlock kisses John in his cheek, Sherlock remarks that it is for a ‘experimental, “to see if human contact can raise endorphins levels.” or something like that.’ John reacts by shutting his long explanation up with a kiss. Bonus points if John uses Sherlock’s scarf to yank him closer. Double bonus points if it is teenlock and set in a boarding school where they share a room. Any rating._
> 
> Massive thanks to my lovely Beta Beth aka [withoutawish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutawish/pseuds/withoutawish/) who has been my knight in shining armour this last week - giving me advice whenever I needed it!
> 
> Also the title was inspired by [Stuck On The Puzzle](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyJhep67py8/) by Alex Turner - the lyrics are pretty much unrelated to the story but the song itself has always reminded me of Sherlock, and it was lovely to listen to as background music whilst I wrote this!
> 
> That's all for now, enjoy!

_Endorphins: Endorphins ("endogenous morphine") are endogenous opioid peptides that function as neurotransmitters. They are produced by the pituitary gland and the hypothalamus in vertebrates during exercise, excitement, pain, consumption of spicy food, love and orgasm, and they resemble opiates in their abilities to produce analgesia and a feeling of well-being._

* * *

For the first 16 years of his life, Sherlock Holmes encountered few problems that could not be solved. And that was, as far as Sherlock was concerned, entirely _boring_. Home-schooling had allowed him to skip a year ahead of his fellow classmates once he entered boarding school. Schooling itself was laughable, family affairs manageable, unruly teeth tameable with the assistance of braces, and friends wholly unneeded. Well, the latter _was_ true, until Sherlock encountered one John Watson.

John Watson was _not_ boring.

John Watson was a kind-hearted 17 year old sciences and mathematics student with a fondness for Clarinet playing and the Army. He was also Sherlock’s first ever friend and current roommate – no thanks to Sherlock. You see, the teen had been adamant upon entering college that he would _not_ be sharing a room with anyone because of his “allergies” – unfortunately for Sherlock, being allergic to “stupidity” wasn’t quite an acceptable reason to sacrifice a much-needed bed space that another student could fill. And so, John Watson had met (a rather grumpy) 16 year old Sherlock Holmes one cold September morning, and the two had been together ever since.

It had been almost two years since their first moderately awkward encounter, and in that time many changes had been made. By the end of the first year with John, Sherlock had learned the key importance of a bathroom door lock, and that a room merely had to have a path of carpet visible from one door to the next to qualify as sufficiently “tidy” to John (frankly Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about the state of it all so long as his experiments went untouched).  By John’s request Sherlock had also modified his typical amount of painkiller consumption after a visit to the Orthodontist to the “recommended” dose. Furthermore he had deduced that whilst it was tedious, labelling chemical containers, and eating (…sometimes) were for the best after one-too-many a scolding from John.

Most importantly however, the biggest change in Sherlock’s life was that he had finally been presented with something annoyingly problematic; problematic in that it was equally unpredictable and unsolvable. This something was, of course, his roommate whom was just as idiotic (and as incessantly preoccupied with trivial things such as “ _the feelings of others_ ”) as the rest of the general population, but was also for some reason perfectly tolerable and strangely good company to keep. Which is why, from the start of their second year together, Sherlock had begun his biggest experimental study yet, titled: _John Watson – an Observation of the Behavioural Patterns of a College Student_.

This study was on-going and 7 months down the line – with no conclusions yet drawn – it was proving to be very much longitudinal in nature. Currently, Sherlock’s discoveries were as follows:

  * _Eating Habits – consumed at regular intervals for that of an average developing teen, vastly prefers tea over all other beverages._
  * _Sleeping Habits – roughly 6 hours per night during weekdays, often exceeding 12 hours during weekends. Shockingly typical of all teens, or so I’ve been told. I believe drinking excessive amounts of alcohol increases the hours John sleeps on Friday and Saturday nights (or in some cases mornings and afternoons, depending on when he returns to our room)._
  * _Grades – above average; John is a hard worker and very studious. It’s admirable, and a reason why he is more bearable than most._
  * _Cleanliness – very high, although our dorm is often unkempt. I assume John’s personal hygiene is exceedingly high given the amount of time he spends in the bathroom (perhaps this correlates with the quantity of tea he consumes on daily basis? – requires further research)._
  * _Relationships – close with family, particularly his sister of whom he is exceedingly protective for reasons I cannot currently comprehend. Has had a string of tiresome girlfriends over the duration of our acquaintance, luckily none have lasted over a month._
  * _Mood Changes – little to zero signs of the so-called “teenage angst”. Always unreasonably cheery after a Rugby match or post-exercise; it’s hateful. Must confront John on this matter._



 

* * *

  

John had been having an uneventful evening after his return from rugby practice, and was happily humming a tune to himself as he went about writing up some Biology notes in the middle of their living room floor. He was surrounded by study books, random papers, Sherlock’s violin, a few dishes, and various articles of clothing that could belong to anyone for all he knew. Sherlock had been sitting without making a sound, simply studying his research journal, when he abruptly snapped it shut. It was the worn black journal that he’d had since the start of the college year – John had yet to gain a proper look at it though, Sherlock was strangely secretive about this particular journal for some reason.

“John.”

Typically John would have responded straight away, however he was in the middle of a particularly complex paragraph on Osmosis and Non-Polar Molecules, and wanted to finish off his notes before Sherlock completely derailed him.

 “…John.”

“ _John_.”

Throwing his pen down, John finally snapped, “Oh for the love of- _WHAT IS IT,_ Sherlock?”

Sherlock glared at him with all the defiance of a petulant child, “I was merely trying to gain your attention, there was no need to shout.”

Scowling John pushed for an answer, “Ugh, whatever. What do you want?”

“Why are you so happy?”

John paused, momentarily unsure of what he had just been asked, “Excuse me?”

“Don’t be dull John, I asked you why you’re so happy.”

After taking a moment to scratch his brow in utter confusion, John looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes, “Let me get this straight, you want to know why I’m _happy_?”

“Correct.”

“Look Sherlock, I know I’m studying to go into medicine but I’m hardly the most qualified person to talk to if you’re depr-”

Sherlock sniffed, “Oh _please_ John – I’m not depressed.”

John rubbed at his lips and raised an incredulous eyebrow, “Then what reason could you _possibly_ have for wanting to know why I’m happy, of all things?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock finally elaborated, “Every time you complete some form of physical exercise, such as today’s Rugby training, you come back to the dormitory in an unnecessarily good mood – why?”

Suddenly understanding the situation John took a moment to sit up and stare at the boy-genius; exercise was in no way Sherlock’s forte, and for the first time in a long while it occurred to John that his friend was entirely baffled by his reaction to it.

John chortled to himself – he was more knowledgeable than Sherlock on this subject. Hell, Sherlock was asking John to _explain_ something to him. _Having the upper hand on Sherlock Holmes -_ it was like Christmas and his Birthday had arrived all at once.

Sherlock scowled at John and crossed his arms, “if you’re going to act smug about my asking for your help you could at least have the decency answer the question.”

At this, John full on laughed. “Really Sherlock, it’s not that hard. It’s just endorphins.”

Sherlock scoffed, “You expect me to believe that your good moods are simply the result of a chemical reaction? Since when did you put things like your _emotions_ down to science?”

“Oh sorry, I forgot you’re the only person to ever study Chemistry,” John deadpanned before continuing on in a somewhat condescending tone, “Look, I always feel good after exercising – it’s just endorphins making me feel good; you know, a runner’s high.”

Feeling childishly determined not to storm off in a huff over John’s smugness, Sherlock opted to take the moral high ground by ignoring his roommate. He returned to his journal and began scribbling some new notes. John sighed to himself, Sherlock was impossible to maintain a conversation with once he got back on with his work, so he grabbed his Biology notes and moved into his bedroom to finish studying.

Sherlock glanced up briefly enough to see his friend’s bedroom door click shut. “Tch. Probably gone to study Biology again – how repetitive.” He grabbed his laptop from the desk beside him and powered it up before holding his journal up proudly to review his newly amended notes, “I, on the other hand, have far more interesting leads to follow.”

  * _Mood Changes – little to zero signs of the so-called “teenage angst”. Always unreasonably cheery after a Rugby match or post-exercise; it’s hateful. Must confront John on this matter. **EDIT: John has explained this as the result of a “Runner’s High” – more detail needed.**_



A quick look on the ever-helpful Wikipedia told Sherlock the following:

_A publicized effect of endorphin production is the so-called “runner’s high”, which is said to occur when strenuous exercise takes a person over a threshold that activates endorphin production. During a release of endorphins, the person may be exposed to bodily harm from strenuous bodily functions after going past his or her body’s physical limit. This means that runners can keep running despite pain, continuously surpassing what they otherwise would consider to be their limit. Runner’s high has also been known to create feelings of euphoria and happiness._

 

“Hm, so that explains your moods. Interesting,” Sherlock mumbled to himself.

 

* * *

 

Later that night Sherlock found himself lying awake in bed; sleep was never a regular occurrence for him. Tonight was different from usual however, in that he was being ceaselessly bothered by thoughts of how John had outsmarted him. _Yes_ , John was more knowledgeable than him in certain areas: relationships, cooking, sport – but nothing that actually _mattered_ ; John’s awareness of the effect that Endorphins have on humans was entirely _scientific_.

Sherlock let out a strange growling noise before throwing his bed sheets away in frustration, “This is unacceptable. I _must_ find out more about this matter.” He stared down at his hands before steepling them under his chin as he pulled out everything he had read on endorphins that evening from his ever-growing Mind Palace.

After scouring several sources he found one sentence that stood out to him; _they are produced by the pituitary gland and the hypothalamus in vertebrates during exercise, excitement, pain, consumption of spicy food, love and orgasm._ He began to mentally check through some potential areas of research; _exercise? No, too dull. Consuming spicy food? No, far too tiresome… Hm, pain on the other hand – now that could be promising._

The beginnings of a very reckless plan had already began to form in Sherlock’s mind, and before he could think better of himself he was up on his feet grabbing a pair of jeans to pull on over his briefs, and a jumper that he’d left on pooled on the floor beside his bed. He swiftly made his way to the front door of the dorm and quickly shoved on a pair of classic black and white converse, his trusty blue scarf, and his long, flowing coat to fight away the cool March chill. Checking his watch, _3:05am_ , he opened the door and slipped outside into the hall.

As he made his way outside he clarified his plan; it was simple really – find a gang, experience pain, and await a “runner’s high”; pedestrian stuff.

 

* * *

  

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to find what he was looking for.   After walking by a few of the more decrepit streets in the area he soon found a gang of ominous looking shadows lurking down an alleyway. Seeing a perfect opportunity, he flipped up his coat collar and made his way towards them.

The group were presumably already on edge so Sherlock remained unsurprised when almost instantaneously a tall, hooded boy who looked around John’s age, turned around and snapped threateningly, “Oi – what the fuck do you want?” This prompted the rest of the teens, of which there were five – all of them male, to turn around and slowly advance forwards to where Sherlock had halted.

Sherlock paused for a moment and watched as his breath puffed out faintly before him in the crisp air. He then took a steadying breath and began, “Well, initially I had intended on commencing some form of vituperation on yourself and the fine examples of society that you have in your company. Luckily for me however, I believe that won’t be necessary – as you are all already, as they say, ‘hard as fuck’ and thereby willing to beat the shit out of anything simply for moving, let alone making derisive comments at your expense.”

The tall youth stared at Sherlock in complete confusion for a split second before he picked up on the sarcasm in the cocky teen’s tone, which was apparently enough to warrant the rolling up of said youth’s sleeves followed by an entourage of insults.

“Look ya fuckin’ poncey arsed dick, we aint got time for this shit. So either shut the fuck up and jog on, or you’ll be sorry – alright?”

Never one to back away from a threat, Sherlock merely smirked at the boy, “I’ll be sorry will I? But whatever for? It’s not like you understood a word of what I just said to you.”

Sherlock then lasted long enough to hear the now furious boy yell back, “Piss off!”, before a fist collided spectacularly with his chin – sending him hurtling back to the hard ground. He then found himself victim of a series of on-going kicks to the ribs, and then his lower back as he curled into a ball in an attempt to shield his organs.

His efforts to protect himself proved pointless however when the rest of the group chose to join in – he found himself clutching at his side and the top of his head, praying for the assault to stop. He was almost certain he heard someone ask, “Isn’t that lad the swat who went to our Secondary school for a bit? Yanno, the one with the proper weird name?” and a faint grunt of, “Oh yeah, that twat Sherlock ‘olmes or summing, weren’t it?” in agreement, but his train of thought was abruptly cut short as someone landed a blow directly in his diaphragm causing him to gasp aloud in pain.

As Sherlock fought for breath he had no doubts that he was now beyond any kind of point where the pain he was experiencing would cause the emission of pleasure-inducing endorphins in his body. Instead he merely found himself affirming that, yes, he was royally fucked, and that, yes, this plan was an absolute disaster.

That was until suddenly, the barrage of hits stopped.

_Wait – the kicking stopped? Why did they stop?_

Inopportunely for Sherlock, he simply no longer possessed the energy to keep his eyes open to see what was going on.  He did however pick up on the very loud sound of a fist colliding directly with someone’s nose – and the tell-tale cracking which could only indicate a broken nose that followed.

A chorus of gasps could be heard before one member of the group roared indignantly, “Oh my god, Gaz are you alright…? Fuckin’ ‘ell mate, you broke his nose – what the fuck d’you think you’re playin’ at!?”

Sherlock had no idea what he was expecting to hear in response to that – but it certainly wasn’t what he heard next.

“I’m not playing at anything you dick, so how about you and your mates fuck off before I call the police and have you all arrested.”

 _John_.

A new voice joined the conversation, “Big shot are ya, eh? Yeah well I’ll soon wipe that smile off y-” but the sound of the presumed leader –  _Gaz was it?_ – crying out in pain abruptly ended whatever it was they had to say next.

The first teen who had ganged up on John began barking orders at them, “Fuck it, let’s just leave these two cunts to it – oway, Gaz’s nose is well fucked, we’ve gotta get him some help.” Apparently whoever this person was, they became the second in command whenever Gaz was incapacitated, and so within seconds the group were legging it as quickly as possible in the other direction. _Good riddance_ was all Sherlock could think before the sharp jolts of pain around his torso caused him to groan aloud in agony.

Before he knew it John was at his side, helping him to sit up and holding the weight of his aching body against him.

“Jesus, Sherlock, are you ok? What on Earth happened to make _five_ lads attack you?”

Sherlock let out a small huff of laughter, “Experiment.”

John sounded appalled, “What!? This was for an _experiment_?”

Despite the massive ache engulfing his body, Sherlock found himself smiling ever so slightly at his friend’s concern; he glanced up to John through squinted eyes “Not good?”

Sherlock felt John let out a laugh of disbelief above his head, “Bit not good, yeah.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, with Sherlock safely nestled under John’s right arm. He would have felt content if it weren’t for his desperate need to take pain killers at that very instant. Sherlock needn’t have worried about complaining to John though, as he switched into full on Doctor Watson mode a beat later and set about getting Sherlock home.

Firstly he propped Sherlock upright as he felt around his torso for any major injuries.

“Nothing feels broken… Tell me when it hurts.” At that, John began to apply pressure to various points across Sherlock’s chest – presumably to check for internal bleeding. Sherlock grunted a few times in discomfort but nothing felt _too_ overwhelmingly painful.

“Hmmm ok, I suspect you’ll be pretty badly bruised in a few hours’ time – but luckily it doesn’t seem like much worse. God, I cannot believe the ridiculous shit you pull sometimes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirked as John wrapped an arm under his own to support him once more, “It’s the only way to keep the boredom at bay.”

John merely tutted in response, “Come on Sherlock, up onto your feet now. The sooner we get home the sooner we can get some meds into you. I imagine you’ll be all kinds of purple tomorrow.” He then hoisted Sherlock upwards and they stood holding each other’s arms to keep their balance – the two laughed in exasperation as Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, and if perhaps they both held onto one another for a moment too long, neither of them brought it up.

Eventually they settled into a steady position that could support Sherlock without inflicting too much pain on him as they walked along. They moved in harmony like this for a while before a thought struck Sherlock.

“…John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“How exactly did you find me, anyway?”

Rolling his eyes John answered, “You shot off out of the dorm in the middle of the night without so much as leaving a note – I know you well enough to know that means you’re up to no good.” Sherlock grumbled but John continued, “I just followed the main road for a while until I heard something down that alley. Then of course I heard someone mention your name and I knew it was you in trouble.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue, “How did you know I was in trouble?”

At that, John giggled – it was a pleasant sound, Sherlock found, “Really? It’s _you_ , Sherlock, you’re always in trouble.”

Rather than kick up a fuss, Sherlock remained quiet – which John happily took as his way of silently agreeing to what he’d said, prompting him to proceed onwards with a smile.

The two of them walked the rest of the distance back to their dorm like this; and after they had safely arrived back, and John had fixed Sherlock up with medicine and sent him on his way to bed, Sherlock found himself reviewing his evening in the confines of his carefully crafted Mind Palace.

As far as experiments go, his had had some confounding variables that had certainly sent his result awry. He did however find that the pain wasn’t _quite_ as unpleasant as he had first made it out to be; certainly not after being rescued and cared for by John like that. A tiny part of him worried that he should’ve felt more awkward about John saving his arse like he had tonight, but he chose to ignore it – for now at least.

 

The more he contemplated his night, the more he seemed to lull himself into a much needed sleep – and so, with those notions dancing around in his intricate mind, one last thought occurred to him before he fell asleep: _further experimentation required_.

 

* * *

 

 Regrettably for Sherlock, the next few days after his “experiment” consisted of him being forcibly made to sit in bed and _eat when you are bloody well told to, because I said so_ by John. It was incredibly trying and not at all what he wanted to be doing with his time, but he had to admit that it did wonders for his bruised body and it _did_ leave him with plenty of time to consider the remaining options he had to investigate a runner’s high with.

Once John had left the dorm for the afternoon to attend his classes, Sherlock rolled over in his bed and – careful of his remaining bruises – fumbled for his discarded journal. He groaned at the thought of having to sit in bed yet again for another entire day – even if he would be working; and so, against John’s request, he opted to go outside for a walk to gather his thoughts and get some fresh air while he was at it.

After methodologically putting on his shoes, scarf, coat, and picking up his journal – Sherlock made his way back out into the world for the first time in almost a week. The March weather had picked up slightly and so it wasn’t as cold as it had been the previous week, but Sherlock still wrapped his coat around him tightly to battle off any icy breezes that came his way.

As he made his way through the park that was beside their college he pulled out his journal and proceeded to read through the rest of his list: _excitement, love, and orgasm_.

Sherlock audibly sighed at the last one – sex was base and entirely uninteresting. Of course orgasm was a quick fix to release tension, but it was hardly anything to spend the day grinning about.

_Argh! This is no good – how is it so difficult to experience something that John feels almost every day?_

Feeling frustrated, Sherlock took his attention away from his journal and opted to glare hatefully at someone or something. Well, that was what he had intended to do until he noticed a couple sitting on the bench a few metres ahead of him.

 _Hm, that’s Lestrade isn’t it?_ Gregory Lestrade was a very competent member of Sherlock’s Chemistry class – he had a piqued interest in forensic science and wanted a career in the police after he gained his A-Levels.

The girl he was sitting with also seemed familiar; w _hat was it? Polly… No, hmm Millie maybe? No, that doesn’t sound right… Ah! Molly! Of course, that’s it._ Molly was also a member of Sherlock’s Chemistry class, albeit much more unnoticeable – where Greg was loud, opinionated, and very much a natural born leader, Molly was quiet, passive, and quite happy to sit and study alone while everyone else caused chaos.

Thinking back on it, Sherlock had never seen them together before; it was curious. Although, in retrospect, Greg _had_ spent a lot of class time staring in her direction so he had probably gathered the courage to finally make a move on her. As that thought occurred to him, Sherlock watched as Greg grasped Molly’s hand in his own – Molly immediately turned a shade redder before leaning over to peck Greg on the cheek. Greg beamed at her; their relationship was obviously blossoming.

Sherlock considered their happy demeanour; _love leads to endorphin release, which leads to a Runner’s high_ … Wait, what was he thinking about here – love? What a ludicrous notion, to care about someone. Ugh, it was tiresome just thinking about the inner workings and politics of a relationship. Surely that happiness couldn’t last – caring was not an advantage. Mycroft had taught him that.

 

The couple noticed him approaching and smiled in greeting, Sherlock merely nodded in acknowledgement at the two before pulling a pen from his coat pocket and crossing out both _Love_ and _Orgasm_ on his list. As far as he was concerned, they were dead-ends to him.

Feeling defeated and more than a little fatigued from exerting himself this much after only a week of bed rest, he decided to return to his dorm.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stormed through the door to the dormitory to discover it was entirely empty – he made a beeline straight for the cluttered old couch sitting in the middle of their living room, knocked the mess from it to the floor, and clambered onto it. He groaned as something hidden in his coat jabbed him in the side, right in one of his now-green-yellow bruises, and re-adjusted his body to remove it. He rolled his eyes at his own obliviousness when he pulled out his journal, and idly flicked through it to the page his experiment’s list rested on.

The only area left to investigate was “…excitement, of which there is absolutely none – great!”

Sherlock’s days consisted of nothing of real _interest_ , which meant that he no longer had any areas of research to investigate, and hadn’t gained anything conclusive. He had reached a dead end. Sherlock glared at his notes before carelessly tossing his entire journal over his head and curling in on himself further.

“Good lord, why must everything be so boring?”

For several hours Sherlock stayed put, until John returned home and saw him like this – coat and scarf clad and all.

Bemused, John approached him before kneeling over his sulking form.

“And what, pray tell, Sherlock, is the problem today?”

Sherlock remained stubbornly silent and continued to glare holes into the back of the settee cushions.

“Really? We’re doing the ‘I’m-going-to-sulk-over-nothing-and-ignore-the-world’ thing today? Is that seriously what we’re doing here?’

Rather than reply, Sherlock merely curled in on himself more as he stared determinedly at anything but his friend.

This, unfortunately, was entirely the incorrect thing to do if John’s reaction was anything to go by. The teen threw his arms in the air in frustration – Sherlock had been acting up far too often for his liking over the past couple of weeks and he was **done**.

John snapped in irritation, “Oh grow up, what is wrong with you? You’ve been acting weird for weeks now. Can’t you cheer up a bit?”

Taking the bait, Sherlock rolled over to scowl at his roommate and retorted, “No I can’t just _cheer up a bit_ John,” before adding bitterly, “unlike some people who are seemingly able to be happy all day long after doing something as menial as running around on a patch of grass.”

Sherlock’s response apparently took the heat out of whatever it was John had boiling up inside of him, and the blonde gave him a look that crossed between amusement and sympathy as he recognised what Sherlock was referring to.

Rather than confronting the issue head-on, John opted to take mock-offense and replied teasingly, “Good lord, running around on grass is above the great Sherlock Holmes? Well I never!”

Sherlock’s frown just deepened at the comment, causing John to laugh; he then shoved Sherlock’s legs out of the way and forced himself onto the couch beside the moping adolescent.

Begrudgingly, Sherlock moved over to better accommodate John’s presence as the teenager asked, “Well then, Sherlock, what would it take to make you happy for the rest of the day?”

Sherlock pouted as he leaned against the armrest and hugged his knees to his chest; he glowered at his shoes, “There’s no excitement! I need excitement! Everything is _boring_.”

At that, John placed a comforting hand over Sherlock’s and began rubbing his thumb in small circles. Sherlock flinched, “John – what are you doing..?”

John shrugged unfazed and gave Sherlock a small smile, “I read somewhere that human contact increases endorphin levels; and with the amount you’ve been isolating yourself this past week it’s no real surprise that you’re miserable right now.”

Images of a happy couple holding hands earlier that day flashed through Sherlock’s mind, as well as several – seemingly unimportant at the time – facts on endorphins and, almost as quickly as these thoughts had occurred to him, he had formulated an idea. John’s slight touch was just the stimulus his equation needed – the spark it took to spur on a reaction. John was, quite simply, his conductor of light in his largely dark, boring world. Sherlock felt as though every puzzle piece had suddenly come together to leave him with a new, interesting theory. Now he just had to test his hypothesis.

And so he swiftly ducked forward and pressed a light kiss to John’s cheek.

John’s immediate reaction to this was to abruptly release Sherlock’s hand and jump back. He then proceeded to stare wide-eyed at his supposed-friend.

Panicking, Sherlock tried his best to explain himself using far more hand gestures than usual, “Ah, no, see John, this is for an experiment – I was looking into endorphins and was trying to figure out this whole ‘runner’s high’ that you mentioned and my investigation was at a dead end. But _you_ John, being you, reminded me of the most trivial – or so I thought – fact that I’d read; kissing allegedly releases _two hundred_ times more endorphins than morphine. Which sounds ridiculous believe me I know, but it seemed valid at the time and so you gave me this new idea which I tested – obviously without properly thinking it through – and well…”

As Sherlock waffled on, John – who had begun staring at the carpeted floor to avoid eye contact – had noticed Sherlock’s precious black research journal, lying open just under where they were seated. The page it had fallen open on was mostly obscured, but the top of the page quite clearly read, “ _John Watson – an Observation of the Behavioural Patterns of a College Student_ ” with “ _Proposed length: 1 year_ ” scrawled just beneath.

Now John knew he should feel angry that Sherlock had apparently been using him as the subject of a study for almost half of the sum of their acquaintance without his knowledge, but for some unknown reason, he felt entirely unperturbed by the whole situation.

In fact, he felt strangely flattered by it if anything – to be the subject one Sherlock Holmes’ attention for what was now approaching a year was no mean feat; which was why he went through with what he did next.

“…perhaps I shouldn’t have been so brash but I  it was for _science_ John, that’s all I-”

John grabbed Sherlock by his blue scarf and yanked him forward mid-explanation, silencing him with a kiss.

Initially Sherlock was too bewildered to respond, but he soon melted into the kiss – enjoying the sensation of John’s lips pushed against his own. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. The experience only got more fascinating when, after a few moments, Sherlock felt John’s tongue slide briefly across his bottom lip. Taking this as a cue for more, he opened his mouth and groaned slightly as John’s tongue met his own – as alien as this kissing business was to Sherlock, he had to admit it was remarkably pleasurable.

Eventually – after several more increasingly-heated minutes of tongues and teeth, and a set of dental braces – Sherlock pulled away, stunned.

John looked into Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes, and flashed him a heart-stopping grin as he panted to regulate his now-ragged breathing.

Sherlock stared back at John – noting the way his smile travelled beyond his dampened lips, up past his lightly flushed cheeks, to his bright and lively eyes.

Sherlock’s gaze lingered on the deep blue pools of John’s eyes for several seconds, and he couldn’t help but think that perhaps caring wasn’t such a disadvantage after all.

Feeling warmth bubbling up in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock found himself unable to simply _not_ return his friend’s smile – apparently, John’s happiness was infectious.

Or maybe that was just the endorphins.

**Author's Note:**

> And there we have it; I hope you liked it, anatomyofaschoolgirl - and the rest of you obviously! I had a lot of fun writing this, and imagining how both Sherlock and John would behave as teenagers!
> 
> I came up with a lot of this fic after researching Endorphins on Wikipedia, which is where most of the scientific sounding quotes in this are from; so hopefully none of the science was too off for you intellectual types ;-)
> 
> Random bit of trivia - the fact on kissing releasing more endorphins than morphine came from withoutawish when I badgered her to help me come up with a title for this fic; it was just too bloody well adorable a fact to not include!
> 
> Also a part of me likes to think that in reality Sherlock would already be well brushed up on any fact surrounding Endorphins since some of their abilities mirror those of Opiates, but I disregarded that little headcanon for the sake of this fic!
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated :)


End file.
